storytelling

people work better when driven (insane) -vi)

The mouth has been watering for some time for a little taste of the really real! Far from the office-as-is. Far from the home-land-security-cam. Far from the life-support system. The Business class. The identical non pinstripe suits. The ladies unable to wear open-toed shoes. Life which is not a beach, even when you live directly on a beach. The gentleman frowned upon for windsor knotting their ties. This isn’t England. We don’t have time for that shit. Deducted from your paycheck. The mentality here. The program we must follow or else. Leave your dreams at home. Put your unpublished novels in the shredder. There’s no glory in your personal story of desecrated ennui. You owe yourself and your country some restitution, for all that rest. Bipolar? Autistic? Schizoaffective? Come one, come all! People wait in line for a diagnosis, just to get away.  Fuck the stigma. Be the illness. Covet the experience no more. Self-actualized mental illnesses. You wanna work it like that? Stranger things are happening, so get in line. Start somewhere. Let a county physician try and know you better than you know yourself. Cognitive behave yourself badly. Be a kid again, or role reverse your kids into parenting you. This is the quiet desperation of those who have spent the better part of their wonderful miserable lives within cubicles.

Heroes. That’s what we ought to start calling ourselves. Those of us who have sacrificed our sanity, to join the really real. Because heroes are the ones who wanna wake up, sunshine, and want you to wake up, too. No envy, no coveting nothing. No needing of what can be ordinarily supplied, to get them going with their bad selves and into the world that way, all human and scarred and shit, all making mistakes and so forth, all in the luxury of the poor, dishevelled, diy, really kinda real and  sensitive and depressed and anxious and emotional and socially awkward or not but creative in a way of living or working all day at some best effort cause with a heart and some passion or compassion otherwise sold at such a great discount and cost on some chopshop butcher block of supposedly trickled down economics. But instead owned and held dearly though appearing laissez-faire or loose or otherwise inaccurately judged, when all it is really, is worn out from trying. Worn out from giving. Worn out from being other than.

We are the  untold heroes and we are real. We don’t need to dream, but we do anyway. We might be found cracking nuts in some blue diamond almond factory down the street in the day. Or throwing paint chips at some glue-dipped armchair and passing it off for high art at some oakland first friday telegraph avenue meet bourbon street doused in whiskeytown rotgut penniless parade in the evening. All the drunken prairie dogs come up off their wooden skateboards to see. It looks like some lost vision.  But it’s not lost, not really. Just looks that way. Don’t be fooled. And sure, the pickpocketers will be among them. High art, my ass! will be the first thought crosses your mind. sometimes. Bottle bands and road flares lit up for applause. Kids hooked on ropes, bouncing off buildings. Calling it dance? There’s solid proof of wasted time and effort squeezing dreams dry. But we don’t let them stop us. Because this is heroics, 101. Acceptance. Insanity. Serenity. Insanity.

Can we continue? Not if we have to ask, no. This is the whole of it, to press on and on doing what you believe in most, then going to sleep, waking up, and doing it some more. You won’t always be happy, you will experience alot of pain and ridicule. But you grind up and juice some more caffeinated heroics, what with yourself and what you offer, and you offer your lifestyle, up to the world, and the young ones see you and wanna be you, because when they meet eyes and meet hearts with you, the mind falls away and the age and the physical and mental pain no longer affects us. We become made in the shade and bonded to one another. All artisans and artists, sisters and brothers. And we get beat up and beat down, and life throws us shit. But we somehow manage to just handle it. We work ourselves up to something good, something greater than great. I think we get there and feel it, then our bodies and minds let up and relax so nice. So natural from living this way. Then we can laugh our souls out right onto our tables, out of our windows and doors on the street. The light and the laughter. Replenished. Replete. Through and through, and another day approaches us and we take it, no fear. Because starvation cannot locate itself in something so dear. Its our twenty thirteen heroics gonna get us out of any bind. We are our national treasure, no doubt. keep our heroics in our attitude, share our talent like its gratitude. save the usa. this way.

A weak argument

He had scant evidence for what he accused her. Little behind his hypothesis. Certainly none of the evidence was empirical. The kind of evidence he would demand of himself to require to prove his point in his own formulated system. Which was by the way, inherently flawed. Rudimentary, actually, like drop the info in a slot and let it get manipulated and come out something he could neatly digest. No matter if the product was devoid of nutrition. Like boiling broccoli instead of steaming it. He didn’t care, so long as it tastes hella good.

They were driving roads north, in the eastern part of the western world. Passing lobster shacks. Military bases. Fast food joints. Malls. Parking lot theatres. Blue collar hoods. Blue light specials. Seaports of the north atlantic. He was driving. He was calm, never frantic. He was older. A black and white thinker. Not borderline but you might have guessed borderline. Like most guys he was engineering built, both mind and body. More mathematically intelligent.

She found mathematics at first to be irrelevant. Her algebra teacher sucked. Her calculus teacher would have to make up for lost time, to reach her. And she was reachable. Maybe not as teachable as reachable. Aka: open-minded, with a blaze of independent spirit like a shooting star across her canvas. He and she were politically opposed. Every fiber of her young being wove out of her energetics, and seeped through her clothes. The crosshairs of cotton were overtaken and lay down upon her skin. She bled liberal. Which to him amounted to a grave sin.

As far as she was concerned, half their misunderstanding in those days on the seaboard of the Atlantic, were simply semantic. Nevertheless he calmly pronounced her a communist one day when she was only nineteen and reading Marx and Engels, behind her seatbelt  crunching Pringles. She laughed so hard,  when she heard him. Fell into one of those rare laughing fits that used to take her to the ground unable to breathe when she was a child. She had learned how to breathe and laugh circa nineteen eighty-six or seven. Without the prerequisite girls finishing school etiquette.

His psychology was to get attention any way possible from her. This was his little sister after all. The training ground for all his failed relationships, and for that very reason. He naturally waited until the last moment for anything. Which had a direct correlation to the availability of almost nothing. He was declined invitations. He was a designed imitation. He was subject to subconscious limitation. He refused to drop to the floor even if his house was on fire.  His situation: dire. He found solid reasons to hide from immaterial beings. His angels were forced to pray for him from a distance; he rarely cracked a tinted window, from the confines of his private limousine. He would turn on her simply because he yearned for her approval. Her laughter hit him in the gut. He fled for the comfort of his intellect, and left his heart in the alley. For removal.